Work Text:
Half a year had passed since their final battle with Diavolo. Long enough for the internal struggles within Passione to be put to rest. Despite the change in power, Giorno’s decisive leadership had the gang united once more, and the outside borders of its territory were now stronger than they’d ever been.
The inner circle shared in this cohesion, not simply when it came to business, but on a personal level too. The bond he’d forged with Mista during that one fateful week had carried on its momentum even in the aftermath of what had happened in Rome, as if it too had been fated.
If Giorno were honest, their transition from friends to lovers had been faster and smoother than his succession into Passione’s leadership. He was a diligent, capable person, but the takeover had been hard, and he couldn’t imagine having achieved all this without Mista there to support him. They’d fought and grown together, and along the way that presence by his side took on a new meaning from that of a comrade or a friend. The lines between them had never been so firmly drawn in the first place, so it was simple, to blur them even further. Until eventually, through some unspoken agreement, they had become something more. They’d never proclaimed their relationship aloud, but they didn’t have to. Out of everything that had happened, to Giorno, it was the one thing that had always just felt right.
Now, things in the organization had settled into a sense of normalcy. The work became less pressing, more routine. All in all, it may have felt like a chapter in a book that was coming to its natural end…
But with calm on one front came the ripples of a storm on the other. With their minds less focused on other things, thoughts of what this victory had cost them began creeping in. There was a momentum to everything, after all, and the wounds of that loss began threading through their peace like splinters in a pane of glass.
Things had started small. An edge in Mista’s voice. A pointed comment here and there. His performance in the field hadn’t slipped, but it had changed. Sometimes he hesitated, even if only for a fraction of a second. At others, he moved too impulsively, finger twitching on the trigger without finesse. These were not crucial errors, the work still got done, but every time Mista faltered his eyes flicked over to Giorno, searching for something.
Giorno knew why he was on edge—his experience in reading others had been honed from an early age, and he knew how to respond accordingly. Whatever rise or conflict Mista was trying to provoke, he wouldn’t answer to it. The minor errors were nothing to reprimand about either, given the circumstances. In this situation he was not simply Mista’s friend or his lover, but also his Don. It was his responsibility to stand strong, to show Mista stability in a world that had fallen apart. That’s what Bucciarati would have done, wasn’t it?
But as those cracks spread, it only made sense that one day that fragile glass would shatter.
The last delegate of the day had been shown from the board room. Mista had been antsy through the entire meeting, uncharacteristically silent and yet tapping his fingers on the table so incessantly that Giorno had had to glance at him, eyebrow raised, in order to get him to stop. The rest of the meeting had gone on uninterrupted, but now Giorno could tell just from the way Mista carried his body that it wouldn’t be the end of it. He could feel the sharp glances turned his way from the other side of the room even as he focused on finishing up his notes. He’d always been sensitive to such things by necessity, and though Mista wasn’t someone he had to worry about—not like that—the old habit was a good one to keep.
So he didn’t flinch, when Mista’s voice which cut the silence wasn’t his usual upbeat drawl. “Looks like you’re really settling in as boss.”
It wasn’t praise, that much was clear. Perhaps he was upset about the silent reprimand from earlier? But Giorno didn’t rise to the barb. “Yes, everything’s running smoothly now, don’t you think?” He kept his focus on the papers before him, on his pen as it scrawled across the page.
“Should it be?” That got Giorno’s attention. Mista had never been so upfront before, never questioned him quite so openly. But when he looked up Mista’s eyes were not on him, offhandedly spinning the cylinder of his gun instead. “Just seems pretty quick for everything to be carrying on like normal.”
Giorno set down his pen. “…You want time off to mourn, is that what this is about? You know you only have to ask.” Those of them who were left had had a small ceremony for their fallen friends, done what they could to keep their memory alive while Passione was restructured. The mementos still stood on a small shrine in Giorno’s office. But Giorno should have anticipated Mista would need more than that, especially without work as a distraction. He’d known them for longer, after all.
The sudden daggers of Mista’s gaze told him right away the assumption had been incorrect.
“Me? What about you? Sure looks like you moved on quick enough. Don’t you want to take some time? Even a god damned moment?”
Giorno stood up from the desk, gathering the papers before him, making sure their edges were perfectly aligned. The movement helped settle his nerves, allowed him to respond calmly. “Mista, I’m the Don of Passione, when exactly would I take a break? Time doesn’t stop just because we’d prefer it to.” He set the neat stack back on the desk, taking one more moment to line it up, one more moment not to deal with this, before stepping out into the room and giving Mista his full attention. “In any case, I believe a smooth takeover is what Bucciarati would have wanted. I’m honouring him and the others through the work that I do.” Bruno himself had told Giorno his soul had been able to ascend in peace, yet perhaps he was still watching what happened in Passione. And even if he weren’t, Giorno would still want to honour him. Perhaps he couldn’t be sure of the others, but at the very least he’d known Bucciarati’s dream. He’d spent these last six months working tirelessly to venerate it as it deserved.
“That’s not the—"
“This is what Bucciarati fought for,” Giorno cut in, “It’s what he died for too. You knew that goal just as well as I did when you stepped onto that boat. He made it clear what the cost might be.” Despite his best efforts, the accusation had gotten under his skin. The weight of Mista’s grievance settled heavily on him, and perhaps a more compassionate response would have been better, but it wasn’t as though Giorno didn’t have grievances of his own.
Mista clenched his fists, barely restraining himself from shouting. “I didn’t know shit,” he ground out.
No, perhaps not. Not even Giorno himself had known, not fully, when he’d boarded the boat at Bucciarati’s side, what it was they’d be losing. But by that point, there wasn’t anything he could have done differently to change the outcome. He’d already failed at achieving the perfect victory.
“Then why did you get on?”
“Oh yeah, what about you? You were first one on the boat with him, so I’d think you cared! But you didn’t— when he died, you didn’t even cry! What kind of cold shit is that?”
Giorno felt a pang inside him, but rather than sadness it was anger. More than any other, this accusation cut into him like a knife, and Giorno turned that fiery pain outward. Taking a sharp step forward, leveling a finger at him, he hissed, “Mista, I—” but he stopped himself in time, the threat of his fury coming up short. I knew him better than any of you. It had almost escaped from his lips, a sharp sting to rival any supposed slight Mista was hung up on right now. But Giorno knew the words would be emphatically untrue. He and Bucciarati had had something special, built on shared hopes and dreams and secrets. A world where it was just the two of them alone, all the way up to the very end. But that didn’t… that didn’t compare to the years Mista had spent with him all out in the open.
He reversed his actions, taking a step back, trying to regain control of himself; it was not often that he lost it. But his own realization of what he’d almost said had sobered him enough. Getting angry wasn’t going to help the situation—what Mista needed was stability. After a deep breath he started again, direct, but calm. “It would have been useless to cry, and I hate useless things. Crying wouldn’t have brought him back. There were other things to think of, and it was my job to—"
“There you go, doing it again!” Now Mista turned on him, his own steps filling in the space where Giorno’s had hesitated, and he reached him before Giorno could react, suddenly far too close. “Just when I start thinkin’ you’ve got something in there—” he growled, shoving a hand against Giorno’s chest, “—you shut it right down.”
Giorno felt tremors run through his body and dug his nails into his palms.
The gesture hadn’t been enough to hurt, nor the words on their own, but… what stung was who had spoken them. By now he would have thought Mista would know what was in his heart. He trusted Mista implicitly as his underboss, and that was to say nothing of their relationship outside of that. Enough to open up to him more than he had to anyone else in the world. So did Mista really doubt the truth of his emotions? “I think I have been clear about how I feel,” he said, voice steady yet somehow meek. He wanted to reach out to Mista, connect with him as he always did. But the resentment radiating from him was palpable, and it kept his hands frozen at his sides.
“Yeah, I know what you said. You’re so damn good with words, aren’t you? Then why don’t you fuckin’ act like it? You know I’d follow you anywhere, Giorno. But sometimes I can’t get a read on you at all.”
Hadn’t he been following his words with actions? Leading by example and providing stability for those who relied on him? He’d certainly been trying, to be what all of Passione needed. What Mista needed.
Giorno breathed through the tightness of his chest, still holding it together despite the onslaught. “Mista, you know I hate repeating myself, but if I haven’t been clear— if you think I don’t care, then—"
“Y’know what?” Mista cut in. “Whatever. Forget I said anything.” Giorno felt the rebuff like a physical force, so strong he could do nothing but watch as Mista turned from the room, vanishing with a slam of the heavy oak door.
The resounding silence that followed made the meeting room seem cavernous. Giorno breathed, focusing on the trembling in his limbs and the sound of Mista’s footsteps fading down the hall. When he could no longer hear them he left the room as well, closing the door quietly behind him.
It was the end of a busy day, and they’d been planning to head home after that final meeting was done. Most nights, he and Mista slept at the villa that served as Passione’s headquarters. It wasn’t often that they were able to be away from work for any long period of time. But, on the rare chance they could, the two kept a smaller house, hidden away on a tiny side street—in fact, GER made sure it stayed that way. In all honesty, that was the place Giorno truly considered as home. Their small sanctuary from the outside world, free from the troubles that plagued them. They lived as any other couple would, listening to music, sharing meals, even watching television. It had always been a place for the two of them, full of happy memories.
After their argument that night, Giorno had packed up his things and prepared to set off alone, despite the pit it left in his stomach. He’d get out of the way and let Mista cool off here—that was the reasonable thing to do. But down in the garage, as he slipped his key into the car door, he was startled from his thoughts by the click of passenger side opening too. He looked up, surprised, to see Mista with one arm leaning on the roof of the car, the other holding the door open.
“I know you’ve got that world-bending Stand and all, but you’ll still need a bodyguard, right?” Mista’s voice was rough, not light and friendly as usual, and he wouldn’t quite meet Giorno’s eye. But nonetheless he was there.
Seeing him, Giorno felt a contradictory tightness in his chest and lifting of his heart. He didn’t, strictly speaking, need protection. And he might have said so, if he thought Mista merely felt obligated. But when he thought of going to that house all on his own, the night seemed to loom like a great black hole in front of him.
Instead, he gave a nod. “Of course.”
His brief smile went unseen as he slipped into the driver’s seat.
The drive had been awkward, with Mista staring out the passenger side window, fidgeting and bouncing his leg. Giorno worked to appear placid and unaffected, keeping his eyes on the road, hands placed at ten and two. Even so, he couldn’t help but flick his gaze over to Mista now and then, as if checking to see he was still there.
The space of their home felt different from usual, the two of them moving through it in a tense silence filled with everything that had gone un- and almost-said. Yet it hadn’t felt like Giorno had feared it would, either.
When he turned in for the night, Mista was right there next to him as always, albeit with his back turned. Giorno stared at its outline in the dark, solid as a wall.
Giorno hadn’t told anyone the truth. How he’d failed to save Bucciarati in Venice after he’d been wounded by Diavolo. He hadn’t even wanted to admit it to himself, enough so that he’d ignored the signs when he first saw them. When their capo had confirmed his fears about his condition, the hope he’d held inside had been shattered. Yet he knew how important it had been to keep it from the others, to accept the revelation without making a scene. He could do it, for the sake of his and Bruno’s dream. What was one more secret shared between the two of them?
But once Bucciarati’s soul had ascended from the world, back to the place it belonged, he’d lost that one person he shared all those secrets with. Bucciarati had been at peace, had left the rest in Giorno’s hands… He had no right, having gotten those final words when his friends would get none, but even after emerging victorious, all he could remember was that feeling. Trembling all alone in the dark.
And yet here he was, not alone. Mista had been with him in the aftermath of that battle and beyond. Even tonight, when he’d been so angry earlier, he was here close enough that Giorno could feel his warmth. Giorno had never experienced such a thing, and though he trusted Mista above all others, had slept next to him in this bed countless times, he hadn’t expected it either. What was he meant to do, in a situation like this?
In the dark of night, Giorno wrapped his arms around Mista’s chest, face buried into his back. He couldn’t stop himself from shaking.
It wouldn’t have been fair, for him to break down back then. He’d had fair warning; he’d had those words of closure. Bucciarati had left it all to him—his teammates, and the leadership of Passione. Their dream. What kind of leader would he be if he’d broken down just like the others? He had no right to expect someone to hold his hand through it. No, it had been his duty to take the burden for them, to transform it until their lives got a little lighter. Crying would have been worse than useless. It would have been an insult. But how could he ever explain any of that?
Though he’d been certain Mista was already asleep, Giorno felt a familiar hand intertwine with his own. Then, there came something just as unexpected—the sting of tears pricking his eyes. The last time he’d felt such a thing had been in the colosseum in Rome, when he’d once again been too late to save a friend. Heartbroken, his soul spread between two bodies, they’d welled up before he’d realized it. Still, he’d held it together.
This was nothing like that time, and yet now he felt powerless to keep them at bay. Giorno pressed closer, even in the dark of their bedroom not wanting his face to be seen as it crumpled and faltered. The tears felt hot and foreign upon his face, not that they stayed there long before soaking into the thin fabric of Mista’s t-shirt.
With a muffled, sleepy sound Mista rolled over to face him. After a couple slow blinks, his expression melted into one of concern. “Hey, hey…” he said softly, reaching out a hand to wipe the tears from his cheeks.
Giorno tried to retreat before he could reach them, momentarily overcome with the instinct for flight, but Mista’s other arm held him tightly in place.
“What’s wrong?” Mista asked, succeeding at his original goal, following his thumb with a trail of gentle kisses.
To Giorno’s horror, he couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. Mista’s hands upon him were gentle, as they had been so many times before. So why now did that touch shatter him to pieces?
“I’m sorry.” The apology rushed out of him with a flurry of shuddering sobs. “I couldn’t save him, I tried my hardest but I… Even with all he said, I should have…” Should have stopped him from leaving. Should have found a solution. Found a way for everyone to be happy and at peace.
“Ssh, slow it down,” Mista said, rubbing his back and pulling him closer. “What d’you mean?”
“I knew,” Giorno confessed. “I knew Bucciarati was dead. He’d been dead since we boarded that boat in Venice.” Tearfully, he explained just what had happened at San Giorgio Maggiore, what Bucciarati had confessed to him in the car on the way to Rome. The failure he’d kept hidden all this time.
Clutching him by the shoulders, Mista pulled back enough to look Giorno in the face. Giorno stared back at him, through the haze of his tears, his breathing as ragged as the tremors that ran through his body. Even the slight distance between them felt cold and empty. Mista had grown pale, and his black eyes were darker than even the night. He couldn’t read them. Was he angry?
Desperately, he tried to explain himself. “More than anyone, I didn’t want to believe it! I swear, I thought I’d healed him! I didn’t even learn the truth until—"
“He never told us…” Mista’s voice was an attempt at flat, but even so Giorno could feel the depth of emotion welling within it. He wasn’t angry, he was hurt.
If it wasn’t anger, maybe he could provide some comfort, some explanation, in Bucciarati’s stead. “Mista, he couldn’t,” Giorno said, as gently as he could when his throat still felt so rough from sobbing. “I’m sure he would have, but he knew he only had so much time left to reach our goal. Everyone needed to be at their best.”
“Uhg,” Mista groaned, but Giorno could hear the break in his voice, see the glitter of tears falling from his eyes. “You two, always so focused on the damn mission…” His hands were soft again on Giorno’s shoulders, slowly stroking them with his thumbs.
“Maybe it was selfish of me, not to tell once it was over. But when you and Trish talked about heading back to the colosseum…” Giorno found himself, by some forgotten instinct, pressing himself tighter against Mista at the memory of the sheer solitude he’d felt in that moment. The warmth of his embrace made it easier to speak. “I couldn’t say anything. I would have given anything to spare you from finding him like that, to keep that hope of yours alive.”
“Wait—after all that, that’s really what you were thinking of in that moment? Protecting us?”
“Of course. Bucciarati left you in my care. So if I had broken down and cried, then—”
“Then we would have been there with you, Giorno!” Mista said, squeezing him in frustration. “You couldn’t’ve stopped what was coming, but… Dammit Giorno, at least we could’ve all grieved together. We could’ve shared that pain. You can’t carry this shit around all on your own! We’re partners, aren’t we?”
The desperation in that last question brought fresh, hot tears to Giorno’s eyes. With a stab of guilt, he nodded against Mista’s chest. They were. And they were more than that too, in ways he didn’t have the words to express. “I’m sorry,” he said again, “I should have told you all of this sooner.” He meant it, but his voice came out weak, the unfamiliar exertion of crying robbing it of its usual conviction.
“C’mon, you don’t gotta… Ok, well maybe you do,” Mista replied, “But I should apologize too. I’ve been on your case lately, and I’m sorry.” With a sigh, he disentangled himself from Giorno and sat up in the bed, switching the bedside lamp on low now that it was clear they wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon. “Truth is, I was… feeling insecure, and confused, and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t’ve said those things.”
In the soft warm light, Giorno could see the furrow of his brow, the way he’d pulled his knees in up against his chest. With his gaze turned ahead, he seemed far from Giorno again, but he had one hand still resting on the bed right next to him. An anchor. Mista usually wore his emotions on his sleeve, but his hesitation made it clear that talking about this was difficult for him. Giorno lay his hand over Mista’s, a silent bid that it was safe to continue.
“You know me, I don’t like to overthink things…” he began, “Fate has a way of putting you on whatever path you’re destined for in the end, right? I never had any reason for that belief to waver, but I also… for a long time, I never had anyone to worry about but myself anyway.” He glanced down at Giorno for a moment, and when his eyes had turned forward again they glistened with unshed tears.
“You say you didn’t get there in time? It was me who failed to save him first.” Mista took a deep, unsteady breath. “Before you came along, we met a guy with a Stand that predicted Bucciarati’s death. I didn’t really get how it worked, the guy said it was fate but— I changed it, I destroyed the Stand for Bucciarati’s sake. Destiny put me there in order to do that, and everything worked out in the end like it was supposed to.” Mista turned, just slightly, fixing Giorno with a despairing look. “But then, there was Abbacchio, and N-Narancia… nothing even predicted that!” It was here a tear broke free, rolling down his cheek. Then another. And another. “But I thought, at least there’s him, at least I could save…” his voice broke off into a sob, and he buried his face into his knees.
Giorno was up before he’d even consciously realized he was moving. Kneeling at Mista’s side on the bed, he took his partner’s hand in his own. Though Mista’s body now shook with sobs, the hand that gripped his was strong—almost desperately so.
“Why am I still here? I can’t do shit! I’m falling apart, and it doesn’t… nothing makes sense to me anymore. So I couldn’t figure out why the hell you still seemed so calm.”
The words made Giorno’s heart crack a little—how could he have gotten so wrong what it was that Mista needed? But despite that, being here now in the position to comfort him relaxed Giorno. It was familiar, unlike his own breakdown from moments before. He lowered his head slowly, pressing a kiss onto Mista’s hand as though he were the Don being honoured. When he raised his eyes, they met with Mista’s as they peered down at him over his arm, beseeching and questioning all at once.
“You’re wrong, Mista. Your actions were not in vain. It’s true Bucciarati told me his death had been fated, that his soul was returning to where it was meant to be…” Had he always known about the prophetic Stand and Mista’s efforts to thwart it, or was it a product of the divine hindsight brought on by ascension? “But he had no regrets about passing on. He said it was also fate, that he’d been given that little bit of extra time in order to achieve his dream, to follow the path he truly wanted. You had a hand in that, Mista. In giving him that time and in bringing us here. Your place on this path is intentional. I never would have had the strength to move forward if your resolve hadn’t shown me the way.”
Tears still stained Mista’s cheeks—and Giorno felt the dried tracks of his own on his face, too—but he’d relaxed with the words, no longer folded in on himself quite so tightly. Giorno raised himself from his position of reverence, head lifted, equal with Mista’s. “You’re exactly where you’re meant to be. Regardless of my Stand, I still need you here, guarding my back. Supporting this organization. There’s no one else who can do what you do. So if your resolve wavers, then borrow some of mine! I know I lost my composure earlier, but I hope you can still rely—”
Mista pulled Giorno to his chest, arms wrapped around him once again, and he was stunned into silence.
“You’ve got it wrong,” Mista said, face buried in Giorno’s hair, “Getting to see you cry like that… it’s given me more resolve than I’ve felt in months.”
Giorno frowned. “Why?” Ever since he could remember, he’d watched carefully. Been whatever others had wanted, no matter the situation he was in. But he had never once been in a situation where someone had wanted him to cry. He didn’t even do it when he was alone. “Tears don’t move anything forward. They don’t change anything. I don’t see what the use—"
“The use is, I love you!” Mista sighed, exasperated but not upset. “I wanna know what’s going on with you. You don’t have to go through something like this alone. And when you try to… it’s like, you try and be there for me, for all of us, but if you hold it all inside it still feels like I’m going through it by myself. You can rely on me for once, y’know. Trust me. Please.”
He felt the words rumble through Mista’s chest as he spoke them, and felt like his whole world was shaking just the same. He must have forgotten it long before his memories began, that there was an option other than being alone. That the purpose of tears was to call those you loved closer to you.
“I…” Normally eloquent, he suddenly felt at a loss for words. “I love you too, Mista.” This was the first time they’d said aloud what had been built between them for months. “This doesn’t, come naturally to me,” he admitted. Relying on someone during battle was one thing, but for something like this… Tentatively, he wondered if he could, and found he wanted to. Mista had never given him any reason to doubt, not even tonight. “But I understand now, what that means. How you’ve been feeling.”
It wasn’t about all the things he’d kept from him, about how fast he’d moved on, nor was it really about him appearing cold when they’d learned of their capo’s death. It was because Giorno had been holding him at arm’s length, even now. Because Giorno hadn’t trusted him, hadn’t allowed him in to share that grief. His enforced solitude and left Mista feeling adrift. Left him without a space to say what was bothering him. It hadn’t been stability he needed, but vulnerability. To know he wasn’t the only one who was suffering from this loss.
Giorno returned the embrace, tears pricking his eyes anew as though all they’d needed was permission. “Stay by my side, Mista,” he pleaded, quietly. “I don’t want to do this alone.”
“Anything you say, boss.” He felt the familiar levity come back to Mista’s voice as the tension left his body. “What kinda bodyguard would I be if I didn’t? I told you, I'll follow you anywhere.”
“I don’t just mean leading Passione, I mean all of it. Everything. Times like this, too…”
The lingering fear of asking for such a thing dissipated when he felt Mista’s nod, his kiss on the crown of his head. “I know, GioGio,” he said. “You don’t gotta worry. I’ve got you.”
The smile on Giorno’s face felt just as genuine as the tears had been.
“I’ve got you, too.”